


Arrows and Bullets

by alyxpoe



Series: Sophie Holmes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Grief, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Suicide, first-person pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:42:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been hundreds of stories of lovers, some ill-fated and star-crossed, others that make it to the happily-ever-after state. I want you to understand that through all of this that my belief that you cannot control who your heart falls for has never changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quivers and Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> To my readers enquiring about what happened to Ill-fitting Flight Suits. I apologize whole-heartedly for pulling the story but it was not working that way I had intended. The written story was not melding with the story in my head, and it was never supposed to be a crossover. Please don't give up on me! That story may show up another time once I successfully iron out the wrinkles. Thank you for all of your kind words, it means so much to me!

_Some people say that writing about romance is a fool’s game, that no one can ever really understand it anyway: how two people can glance across a crowded room at each other and each can see something about the other that no one else suspects. Whether that first glance tells of an emotional undercurrent that strangely cannot be appreciated by other people, or possibly of some unusual tell only apparent in that single glance, no can say, and sometimes not even the lovers._

_There have been hundreds of stories of lovers, some ill-fated and star-crossed, others that make it to the happily-ever-after state. Some that burn hot and bright in the beginning and then burn out like dud fireworks, leaving no trace of itself behind.  Others burn like a dying star and then slowly trickle down into a mutual respect for one another, even after admitting differences that can no longer be repaired by time or science or the laws of the land._

_Some romances don’t even start out to be romances, but with time and the same mutual respect that I mentioned earlier, become something even more beautiful and long-lasting._

_Some people say that writing about romance is a waste of time because everyone understands it in their own way. Others say it’s just about lust with your pants on or that it’s all about sex in the end and that sex is the most evil and vile thing that has happened to humanity. Yeah, well, some people beg to differ. Love and sex and caring and needing and wanting to be with another human being is a natural drive instilled in all of us from the moment we become aware. It’s an unbroken circle._

_I want you to understand that through all of this that my belief that you cannot control who your heart falls for has never changed. So please sit back and relax. Light a fire in the stone fireplace and quiet your minds. Let me tell you a story._

_From the Blog of SW-H.  
_

Ooooooo

My name is Sophie Watson-Holmes and I have two of the most amazing dads that you will ever meet. We live in a large house just outside of London, England. My Grammy Hudson lives here as well. I have spent my years growing up here at what my Daddy likes to call “Watson-Holmes manor.” It is a large estate, full of the many things a young girl needs to grow and make her strong. I grew up riding horses, learning to target shoot with my Daddy’s old Army-issue Browning, and generally running amok about the place. I am also pretty good with a bow, and my Papa even had some arrows made for me with purple flights, as it’s my favorite color.

Yes, you heard me right. I have two dads, but of course, I also have a mother. Her name was Molly Hooper and she was killed in an auto accident when I was just a few months old. Coincidentally, the accident took place one very cold morning right in front of the taxi that my Daddy had hired to drive him to the surgery where he was working at the time. Though he has kept his medical license, it was that same day that he quit working in regular practice. I will explain more about that later.

My Daddy was the last person that my mother saw before she died. We have talked about this, and I agree with him that he was probably able to give her some comfort in those last moments. I would also like to think, though I don’t believe in any kind of heaven populated with little naked angels, I’d like to think that somewhere her spirit is aware of me. From the stories my fathers and other people have told me about my mother, she was a quiet, unassuming kind of person. She worked in the morgue and her capable hands not only cleaned up the bodies of the broken, but she also reached out to heal the hearts of the people left behind.  She helped my Papa do something _Big_ once and really made a difference in people’s lives, whether she was aware of it or not. By helping out with that one _Big_ thing, she made it possible for not only me to be alive, but both of my fathers. Even though I never really knew her, I say a little “thank you” for her in my heart whenever I think about her.

My Papa says that she _saw_ him. It has taken me many years to understand just what he meant, but I think I am getting there.

My Papa is my biological father.  Apparently I was conceived after the _Big_ thing that my mother helped him with. I know that there are many ways of loving another person and I am not ashamed that my parents were not lovers but friends when I was conceived. The mutual respect and caring that they had for one another created life and saved the lives of countless others. It would be selfish of me not to see what a wonderful thing that has been.  Friendship should never be discounted just because it is such a simple word.

My Papa loves my Daddy with all of his heart. I can say that in the twenty years I’ve been alive, there has never been a day that has gone by that I have doubted that love for a millisecond. Some people are just made to be together, and, well, they are some of those people. Next year is their twentieth wedding anniversary, and I really want to do something special for them. Maybe by writing out my story, I can think of something wonderful that will show them how much I love and appreciate them both.

I am watching them now, walking hand-in-hand up through the side yard from the garden. Still, after all this time, hopelessly in love with one another. My Papa is wearing his bee-keeper's whites, but has removed the veil from his head. Papa's hair is curled in tight ringlets around his forehead from the pressure of the veil. I’ve always loved my Papa’s hair, sometimes it can be indicative of his mood: it can be smooth and wavy just from a shower or a swim, or it can be wild and unfettered from where he would run his fingers through it while working on case. He doesn’t work as many cases anymore and only rarely ever leaves the manor for them. He’s still a techno-buff and uses whatever is at hand to visualize the scene and more often times than not, solves the crime.

On those rare occasions that he needs to actually see the scene first-hand, he will smile at Daddy and whisper a word under his breath that sounds like “danger” though for some reason it makes no sense to me, so I just shrug it off. But Daddy smiles and off they go. Grammy will sometimes come over to wherever I am, sitting at my desk writing usually, and we will watch them leave together. They are both older now, but still very much who they have been throughout my lifetime.

Papa’s black hair is streaked with silver and Daddy’s just seems to be turning white. Really, they are both quite striking older gentlemen. I requested that Grammy never tells them I say that about them, but I am sure at least Papa knows anyway. Daddy still has much of his temper and Papa still throws the occasional tantrum (I have heard all about those days from every single person around me. Plus, I’ve seen the arguments between Papa and Uncle Mikey. I am under the impression that just because they are older just means the arguments have a shorter expiration date than before.) Oftentimes, when the inclination to bicker about something silly comes up, Papa will stalk into the bedroom and Daddy will walk, either down to the stables or with me.  Those long hikes with Daddy have shortened a bit, but I have always been able to keep up with him, stride for stride. It’s always been _our_ time. Those are the times when I can talk to him about life in general (he says that the answer is _forty-two_ but I still don’t get it) and where he has taught me many things about compassion and listened to me when I came to him with some silly school-girl problem. He never fixes my problems outright; instead he makes me think them through and generally I can come to a conclusion on my own.

When I was younger there were times when I lashed out against the both of them for not fitting into a normal mold. Like every other kid in this world, I was subjected to outsiders’ opinions on my home life as well as myself. Over time, their patience and wisdom helped me through those rough patches and I think I came out a little stronger on the other side of them. Somehow, I've never lost my way.

I guess I am tall for a female. Daddy and I often look straight into each other’s eyes, though Papa is much taller. Daddy can put his arm around my shoulder and he doesn’t have to reach up nor does he have to hunch over. Papa always hunches a little, whether he is hugging me or Daddy or Grammy. I have always felt that he has no awareness of this, and it seems to have done no lasting harm to his spine!

I have my Papa’s long fingers, but I have no musical ability whatsoever. (Unless cranking up my speakers counts, I can sing but not well.) I do like using the bow, however. It is just old-fashioned enough to be unusual in many circles. When I was fourteen I learned how to shoot from the saddle, both with my bow and Daddy’s Browning. I saw it on the telly once when I was watching a program about American horse shows, so I had to try it.

As with everything I wanted to try, Daddy and Papa were there by my side, as they are even today. In all these months that I have been at University, I have felt the touch of their hands on my shoulders, encouraging me and helping through the bad times. In the beginning, it was rough. It was difficult to be away from them, but that was two years ago and I have adjusted since.

Ooooooo

I have just finished a practice run. I am pulling my horse up to a slow stop after rushing the targets that Daddy made me out of hay stacks and cardboard. My horse, Amber, and I are going to be part of an exhibition in a few days and I want to make sure that she and I are both ready. When we practice, Amber only wears my specially-made saddle and a halter. There is no point in putting a bit in her mouth nor reins in my hands because I need my hands to hold whichever weapon I am firing.

As we were completing our last gallop, I fired my last arrow into the target with a satisfying whump and turned Amber using my left leg. She tossed her head a bit and laid her ears back, just being a mare. After a few moments, she settled into an easy canter and by the time we were back up at the barn she was walking calmly under me, snorting occasionally to let me know she really wanted to drop her head and graze but she was being oh so good and maybe she could get a treat.

Yeah, horses say a lot in snorts and whickers. Just like Papa says a lot with his eyes and my Daddy says millions of words when he is silent. Maybe that’s why I understand these things.

I hang the bow over my arm and as I am reaching to pull of the helmet Daddy insists that I use when riding (even though it sometimes impairs my vision it really is not worth the argument, even now) when I notice Uncle Greg standing by the paddocks. He gives me a little wave. I've only been home a few days and this is the first time we will have the chance to catch up with one another.

Uncle Greg is another wonderful person I have know my entire life. He was a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard up until just a few years ago, when he retired. Since then, he has been a regular around our house and will often come down to the stables when I am practicing and give me pointers on shooting at the targets. He is a very interesting, very mellow person and almost as calming as Daddy. That is probably why Uncle Mikey loves him.

I am hoping that someday I find a person with Uncle Greg’s hair, Daddy’s eyes, Papa’s intelligence and Uncle Mikey’s diplomacy. Whether that be a man or a woman, I’m pretty open right now. I reach down and pat my bay cob’s thick neck and she knickers a little at Uncle Greg. According to Papa, apparently Uncle Greg has had some mystical effect on almost every female they ever came across, so I cut Amber a little bit of slack.

I wave at Uncle Greg and shift myself sideways in the saddle. Both my feet are out of the stirrups, but the high, padded cantle and pommel keep me steady. Amber’s head is almost to the ground and she stops just in front of Uncle Greg and I hop off her back, keeping my bow above her back so as not smack her with it. (That happened only once. I am smart enough not to ever let it happen again. Mare. Remember?)

“Hey there Princess Sophie!” He welcomes me with a hug and a kiss to each cheek. I can feel the smile plastered on my face. Amber now seems to be awake and she is poking her muzzle at his face, sniffing loudly. All females indeed. He smiles slightly spicy today and he cheek is smooth.

“I watched you make those last two shots, you really are a regular Robin Hood, eh?” He smiles at me, his teeth still perfectly white after so many years of coffee and cigarette binging. It’s our little secret that he still occasionally sneaks a smoke, but who I am to tell? Trust me, I completely understand the need being around Papa _and_ Uncle Mikey my whole life.

Amber has dropped her head to the ground and she is doing the skin shiver thing, so I reach down to rescue my black leather saddle before she decides to roll. Uncle Greg gently takes the bow off my arm and the black leather quiver off my back. I pull the saddle and pad off of Amber’s back and she takes a few steps away from us and drops to the ground for a leisurely roll, snorting and kicking her legs like it’s the best feeling ever. She will make sure that it’s going to take me at least twenty minutes to get the in-ground dirt off of her back later. Payback for asking her to make one more pass at the targets, of course, but that is why I like her. She is tough but honest.

Uncle Greg follows me into the barn where I perch my saddle onto its rack and flip the deep purple pad upside down on top of it. Amber worked hard today, but the pad isn’t especially smelly or damp, it’s probably only out of habit that I store it this way. He asks me about my classes and I carefully reply. For some reason, I do not feeling like talking about school. I want to enjoy being home for the time being.

Besides being away from my fathers, I think this is what I missed most when I was at Uni. I start stripping off my black leather gloves and wrist guards and Uncle Greg and I talk about the exhibition. I am calling it an exhibition, but he keeps saying “Renaissance Faire.” I know that’s an Americanism he picked up when he spent a few months across the pond investigating a case, but what I’m doing isn’t the same.

As much as he likes calling me Robin Hood, I am actually going to be in a costume that fits no period os specific character at all. I’ve based it on a few comic book characters and what I know will give me ease of movement. There is no prize except for bragging right. Since there are so few of this who do this here anyway, that barely even matters. I am going out there to have a good time, see some old friends and watch the jousting hunks.

I mean guys.

“Uncle Greg, I am going out there just for fun, not everything is a competition.” I scold. He gives me his most _a sport is a sport, it’s all competition_ grin when he is pushed toward me by something behind him. I stand there holding all this leather in my hands while my palfrey is sniffing his back. Yeah, she is still looking for that treat, no doubt. Uncle Greg laughs and turns to playfully swat at my mare. She sticks her nose out and I remove her halter and she follows me to her stall where I give her some apple slices and Uncle Greg drops a molasses buscuit into her trough. I check her water buckets and make sure her salt block is not horribly ravaged. The stable hands will be through in about an hour to feed the rest of the stable’s residents.

Amber relaxes and drops to her belly with a sigh. I made sure her bedding was clean before we ever went out to the field. I know the grooms get paid to do it, but when I’m home, I like it to be my responsibility. I tell her good night and fall into step beside Uncle Greg as we walk up to the house.

We enter the house through the back door that leads into the sitting room. Grammy is on the couch, some new knitting project in her lap. Daddy is in the kitchen, I can hear the sounds of supper being started. Papa is standing by the window that looks out to the stables, his violin in his hand. He smiles at me as I come in the door and pointedly looks at my tall boots. I shrug at him but then I carefully remove them and leave them sitting side-by-side on the mat that has been placed in front of the door for this purpose.

I walk over to Papa and give him a kiss on the cheek. His eyes blaze as they study me. I cannot ask him what he sees because he will just tell me what I have been doing and I do not need a run through of it all, thanks, I was there. It has been a running gag between us for some time now. I think he does it not to be irritating, but as practice. Generally, he will even tell me Amber’s mood from some silly thing like how a piece of hay has forced itself into the instep of my boot or something, but he has been watching me today so he knows that I know it would be cheating.

Papa is holding a hand out to Uncle Greg when I scoot into the kitchen in my stockings. Daddy turns away from the stove where he is busy with what appears to be pasta sauce. He stirs with the wooden spoon in his left hand and reaches out for me with his right. He kisses me on the same cheek Papa just did (sometimes I think they do this on purpose) and swats my behind, which kicks up a little bit of saddle dust. He just laughs (I wonder if he is too old to say he _giggles_?) and continues to stir the sauce.

I go upstairs to my bedroom and change out of my breeches into an old pair of jeans that I’ve had since High School. They are soft and as I push my legs through them I decide to leave on my long stockings. Papa gave these to me last Christmas and I love the black and yellow striped pattern. He so rarely does anything whimsical that these were keepers from the second I saw them in the box. I change the purple T-shirt I’ve had on all day and slip on a white one. I pull my hair down from its tight bun and run a brush through it. I then pull it back, lastly adding a white bandanna. After washing up, I head back down to the kitchen.

As I walk down the stairs I take note of the beautiful oranges and reds of the setting sun reflected throughout the house. Daddy says from the day he first came here he always felt at home. I have asked him about other places he has lived, but sometimes he has selective hearing and will just go on about this house for hours, so I gave it up as a lost cause.

The kitchen is so warm and inviting. There’s hardly a chill in the air, but with the leaves turning colors, it won’t be long. Grammy and Uncle Greg are at the table and Daddy is putting some pot holders down on the wood to hold the serving dishes. Uncle Mikey must be coming tonight, usually Daddy isn’t quite so formal and we often eat “buffet style,” serving ourselves from the stove and counter top. I move past Daddy and grab a stack of plates and silverware. Our wineglasses are already set about the table I notice while watching Uncle Greg slather butter onto a crescent roll that he has just pulled from the basket.

Papa comes up a few moments later with a bottle of wine and Uncle Mikey comes in from the foyer. He nods to everyone, patting my shoulder as he walks by and elegantly sits down next to Uncle Greg. I take my place between Grammy and Daddy and watch Papa deftly open the bottle. He sets it on the table for a few moments while we pass around the serving dishes. As always, Daddy has outdone himself. I love the way the flavors of garlic and pesto sweep over my tongue. Papa pours wine all around, giving himself less than everyone else.

We eat and have a nice chat and it is all warm and wonderful. My uncles ask me about the upcoming exhibition and generally seem interested when I talk about it. I know when they all look at me they still see the baby girl with the big green eyes and curly black hair. I hope that one day they will see a grown woman and have a reason to be proud of me for more than just existing.

For now it’s enough. I am good at this strange and unusual thing and I am not concerned with how other people see me or my family.

Grammy excuses herself a bit later to head up to bed, leaving me with a peck on the cheek and an empty chair to rest my feet in. Uncle Mikey and Greg leave together and Daddy clears the table. So it’s just me and Papa, both with our hands around warm cups of tea. This is something else I have missed: these chats with my Papa when he talks about the things that he and Daddy have done together. Apparently, Papa used to show off quite a bit more than he does these days. Maybe he just knows that he does need to show off for me, I love him just the way he is. Daddy says he is much calmer now, and this is something else I consider as I listen to his velvet voice across from me. The dim light in the room sets off the fire in his eyes and the silver in his hair.

Without me noticing, Daddy has slipped back to the table and has taken Grammy’s empty seat. He has lifted my feet in their black and yellow stockings and placed them in his lap. His hand is warm resting on my ankle. We smile at each other and sip our tea. He will occasionally correct some small detail in Papa’s narrative, but otherwise he is quiet. I absorb his strength.

I carry a new story to bed with me. It’s all here in my head and I will sleep tonight knowing that I am very lucky to be surrounded by such extraordinary people who love me. One day I hope to be as great as they are. I think about all of these things and finally drift off to a dreamless sleep. It is so good to be home.


	2. Books and Memories

Weak sunlight filters in through the curtains and reaches out to lightly caress my face. I open my eyes, listening to the old house waking up around me. For a moment, I study the books on my bookcase. I roll over and climb out of bed. Little shocks through my bare feet, sometimes the old floors are chilly in the morning. I’ll have to dig around in the bedclothes for the socks I obviously kicked off in the night.

I enter my little bathroom and run through my morning routine. I really should jump in the shower, but I’m on vacation and would like to spend a little time reading this morning. I stretch and study my books. I tend toward a Science-Fiction predilection. I pull out an old copy of a Ray Bradbury and push myself back under the soft duvet. For a while I can get lost in the single day of sunlight on Venus.

I have fallen back to sleep and awaken to the sound of a soft knock on my door. I rub my eyes and sit up against the headboard. I already know who it is, but I speak out the affirmative and Daddy opens the door. He’s carrying a little battered notebook and my curiosity is instantly picked.

He sits down beside me with his pajama-clad legs hanging off the side of the bed. I put my arms around his shoulders and lay my head on his back. I’ve missed him so much. He pats my hands and I move to be right beside him. He holds out the little notebook and I can’t help but smile when I take it from him.

“Those are my notes from some of your Papa’s earliest cases.” A little electric jolt runs through me. Believe me, for someone who has been writing about their family as long as they can remember, this is a big deal.

“Thank you, Daddy.” He knows how much this means to me. I may not be the writer that he is, but I think I can make these stories come alive in whole new ways. Several of my short stories have been picked up in a local writers’ magazine, but I am hoping for a wider audience. Daddy still keeps his blog and I’ve used it like an archive for their adventures. My stories tend to border on the fantastic with a Sci-Fi bent. I inherited the love of technology and I make use of it. Having Daddy’s words, straight from his mind (and Papa’s) to his pen and right onto the paper at the time is a gift like no other.

Daddy studies my face for a moment. We both know how much I want to get into this notebook and get into my own head for a while. But there is something else he wants to ask me.

“Sophie, are you ready to talk about school?” He sits quietly with his hands in his lap. I have no desire to talk about it right now, but I’d rather not take the happiness away from him at this moment. Alright, I’ll compromise.

“Not now, Daddy. I just want to…” I am seriously at a loss for words here. (Pretty surprising, all things considered, true none-the-less.)  How can I tell him how much I enjoy learning but I feel that I need to devote more time to writing?  How can I explain to him that I never want to go back to that place? It ceased being a haven for me when Michael died.

I take a deep breath and I start again. “I can’t go back.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The whole of it wraps around me like a heavy blanket and pushes me down into my father’s arms. The tears that I have managed to hold back all this time are now escaping my control. I sit there and sob like a child and Daddy holds me close. He gently smooths my hair and whispers to me that none of it was my fault. I know that, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. It does not erase the images from my mind.

After a while I attempt to compose myself. I sit up and wipe my eyes with my hands and magically a tissue appears from the pockets of Daddy’s dressing gown. This is what he does and it is marvelous. Through all of it, I could never ask for anything better.

My mind is clear again of memories that I simply cannot face right now. I wipe the tears off of my face in an attempt to gain control. Daddy reaches out and holds my hands in his own.

“I understand.” I know he does, absolutely. He knows what this loss feels like. My loss will never be tempered by a miracle, however. I wonder if my thoughts would sound cruel and bitter. I bite them back.

For a time we just sit that way, thinking our own thoughts. I will get through this, I know I will. It’s just going to take days and months and I’ll be able to talk about it. But not right now. Daddy pulls me into a tight hug and then pulls me up beside him. His arm is around my shoulder and he guides us out of my room this way. I wrap my arm around his waist and we step out into the hallway.

Papa is standing in the doorway of their room, which is directly across the hall from mine. He is fully dressed, though he has bypassed his usual standard of trousers and is wearing his jeans. Nothing on for the day, then, except household stuff. Maybe he will let me come out and help him collect honey. He has an odd look on his face that I’ve seen before. I call it the _I’m not sure I was supposed to hear all that but I did and I can’t erase it so now what do I do_ look. Papa’s looks generally have a life all their own. This one I’ve only seen a handful of times (like when I started by monthlies back when I was eleven. They were both embarrassed but Papa was out of his league. Like completely. Daddy took charge and it wasn’t as horrifying as you would think.)

It does not bother me that Papa reads me like an open book. It keeps me from having to say the words. I wiggle out of Daddy’s grasp and he turns to Papa. I head down the stairs to the kitchen but instead of sitting down, I grab one of last night’s rolls from the basket on the counter and head out through the foyer. I hope it doesn’t hurt them, but I need to be alone right now.


	3. Cats and Memories

Sometime later I find myself lying on my back up in the hayloft. I haven't really hidden up here since I was much younger, but it seemed a good place to be in the middle of an autumn afternoon. It was only after I'd stretched out that I realized Daddy's notebook is tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. One of the barn cats has bravely asserted herself and is lying on my chest asleep, purring. I pet her head and she stretches out her legs, toes akimbo, then curls back up on my breasts. That is certainly one thing I inherited from my mother.

 _Thank you._ I whisper into the wooden rafters. Barn swallows pop in and out through the open windows and I can hear the rustling of horses below me. There is a slight breeze up here, but it is not uncomfortable. If I turn on my side and actually look out the windows, I would be able to see several of the mares in the pasture. Amber is down there, quite enjoying having a day off, I think. I settle in a little more with my back against a haybale I manhandled into its current posistion. It smells so wonderful that I cannot help but draw in a deep breath. Peace. This is what I have needed since I came home. Just a little time to think.

I pull Daddy's notebook out of my pocket and open it up to the first page.

_John H. Watson_

_  
_Daddy's quite boyish handwriting, written left-handed in a precise manner. I peruse the pages, some are written out paragraphs about one case or another. Some pages only a couple of words, almost like he had been interrupted at some point when he was jotting his notes down. At first, Daddy only wrote down his thoughts _after_ a case had been completed and there was some down time. The further into the notebook I get I notice that sometimes the handwriting is sloppy, almost as if the book was pulled out of a pocket and notes jotted down fresh. Towards the end of the notebook, a name, Moriarity, is written across the top of several pages. At some point, Papa has even gone in and added some of his own little illustrations and the occasional map. This is amazing. It is just like sitting at the kitchen table with them, learning how they worked cases, sometimes from completely different angles, to solve the puzzles.

I flip back to the beginning of the notebook and really start paying attention to what I am seeing. The very first case they worked together, the one that Daddy titled "A Study in Pink" on his blog all those years ago, is a mere three sentences in the notebook.

_Rachel, password to her mobile._

_Hope, the cabbie, with the pills. He is a dead man walking.  
_

_I shot a man for him today.  
_

_  
_For some reason, that last sentence brings tears to my eyes. Those seven little words that say so much, even now. I shake my head and realize that there are tears on my face. I huff and angrily wipe at them with the back of my hands.

That loyalty can never be exaggerated. It reminds me so much of Michael. I don't want to think of Michael at all, but at least here in the peace of the loft I can give in for a time. I can think about his brown wavy hair and deep brown eyes and how much he meant to me. I can think about how many times I fantasized about telling him how much he meant to me and holding out my arms for a hug that he will now never step into.

I am crying hard now, but its time to let it out. I can't keep holding this in forever. The calico cat has moved from my chest down to my lap and I am sitting up, caressing her soft fur slowly with my fingertips. I am hardly aware, but the purring sound is comforting in a way human voices so rarely are to me.

I never knew that two people who were so opposite could come to care about each other so much. Michael came from a normal working class family. His dad worked on the docks and his mum was a baker. I met them once or twice, they were wonderful people who cared about their son and daughter very much. They seemed to like me, at least until they found out that I had two fathers. Never mind _who_ my dads are, that wasn't even important to them. Daddy was there the first time I met them and they were cordial to him, as most people are when they meet him the first time. I guess they hear "doctor" and think...who knows what they think? Daddy's smile usually encourages people to talk to him, even complete strangers.

The second time Michael took me to his house was almost one year ago. He lived half-way between our house and the school, so Papa came out to pick me up. Mr. and Mrs. Tripp had heard me talk about my _parents_ and even heard me use the terms "daddy" and "papa." I don't know why I never thought about it, but apparently they believed that to mean one and the same person. It wasn't until that day when Papa was standing in the doorway in his aristocratic long coat that they put two and two together and came up with the right answer. Papa has been insulted many times before, but the things Mrs. Tripp said to him that day were uncouth. She was cruel and by the time I was able to pull Papa away from Mr. Tripp, he was trembling as much as I was. That woman lit into my father, calling him every name in the book and then some I had never heard until that day. She shouted abuses that probably could be heard several kilometers away.

Michael stood by my side in the kitchen, his head bowed and tears running down his cheeks. As much as a man any other nineteen year old could be, he looked in that instant to me like a little child. It was then that I knew who he was. It did not change the way I felt about him, but our friendship grew stronger despite his bigot parents. After we got home that night, Papa and Daddy and Grammy and I sat together in the sitting room. Papa was hurt and angry, but more upset that someone could treat their own son this way. I agreed. I knew it was hard for Michael to be himself around other people, but I never knew it had been that bad. At home! The one place you should be able to be yourself and he couldn't. Daddy hurt for all of us, including my friend. Grammy shook her head and held me close. Papa paced the room for a while but finally settled next to Daddy and we all sat quietly on the sofa for a while, giving comfort to each other.

It hurt me that Michael could not have this sense of belonging, so I invited him up to the manor on the last couple of breaks we had before the end of the year. The first time he was shy and would barely talk to anyone but me and then he opened up to Daddy and Grammy, but he was still learning Papa. Everyone knew the _Great_ Sherlock Holmes and I'm sure he was a bit intimidated, but Papa was always kind to my friends, all of them, and Michael especially.

The most memorable moment was last Christmas when he talked to us about a young man he had met at school. I had been in several classes with Richard and had been impressed with my classmate's intelligence. Not to mention looks. It seemed to us all that Michael was in love. I was so happy for him that I thought my heart would burst. That evening after an excellent dinner prepared by Daddy and Grammy, we had all retired to the sitting room. We were all having a glass of wine and Papa was playing his violin softly in the window, right next to our huge Christmas tree. Uncle Mikey and Greg had come over and we were having quiet conversation when the music stopped suddenly. Apparently, Papa had noticed Michael watching the violin the way a hawk watches mice. Papa had smiled and handed the bow of the Stradivarius to my friend. Michael had gaped for a moment but then lovingly accepted the instrument from my father's hands.

He had turned toward the Christmas tree and begun playing so quietly that we could barely hear the notes over the crackling of the fire. In moments, Michael had recovered from his shock and the instrument was singing in his arms. I knew that Michael had played several instruments in the past, but to actually get to hear him was something else again. I leaned back against Grammy as we listened to my friend snap the notes out with his eyes closed against the lights. Richard was very lucky and my fervent hope was that he would be able to see this side of my best friend.

I had girlfriends, sure. Some of them had even been invited to our house, but over the years they all seemed to drop away, some married, some moved on to jobs outside the city (one even to Denmark) but Michael had been my friend for so long that it seemed he would always be there. I knew he would eventually find someone of his own and he regularly encouraged me to go out and date, but the timing never seemed right. Guys either wanted to date me to see how much like my Papa I was or just to get into my pants. Boring. Girls wanted to date me just to catch a glimpse of Papa.

So, yeah, the dating thing was never much my forte.

I shifted my weight and stretched my legs out. The little cat jumped up onto another bale and gave herself a thorough bath. My lap was empty, but my heart was full. Michael used to laugh and tell me that most normal best-friendships didn't work out this way: one girl and one guy. Since we were ten years old I had asked him _why_ and neither of us ever had an answer. It was funny then that we were friends at all, considering how far apart we lived.

It all started the summer I turned ten years old. Our stable was hosting a Pony Club show and Michael had shown up with some of his friends. His friends and my friends got along famously and by the time we stopped mucking about with the ponies and our picnic was laid out up at the house, we had become fast friends. It didn't bother him that I was girl and it sure didn't bother me that he was a boy. Maybe I was just used to boys. I don't know.

Regardless of the reasons, Michael was best friend. We would chat on the computer or we would talk on the phone. Several weekends during the summer, he would get here by means of older friends with wheels and we would all hack out and have a blast. Years later, he encouraged me to try the bow after I told him how Daddy had taught me to shoot with his gun. After I saw the American horse show on the telly, with the "cowboy mounted shooting," it was Michael that I called, all exited about something new.

It hurts me now to think about how encouraging he had always been to me while living with such a nightmare family. I feel so stupid for not being able to see it. I had nothing to go on, nothing to ever think that someone close to me could be in so much pain, even after I studied some of the cases my parents had worked. The bodies, the passion, well just everything about the human condition. Really, my parents never held anything back from me. They had even told me about the _Big_ thing that my mother had helped them with...

And yet I was still so naive. I sighed and stood up as much as I could in the loft. I needed to get Amber bedded down for the night so I climbed back down the ladder. I was very glad to note that no one had been hanging around listening to me blubber like a fool. I grabbed a pitchfork off the wall near the big doors and opened the door to Amber's empty stall. I sat the pitchfork up against the wall and checked her water buckets. Ugh. She's been dunking her hay again. I pulled the buckets off of their hooks and carried them outside. I walked a few steps off of the path and emptied the buckets, watching the arc of the water as it cascaded towards the ground. I carried them over to the hoses and rinsed them out. I refilled them both about half way and hung them back in her stall, knowing that they would be topped off by the stable hands after the horses were all fed.

After returning Amber's buckets to their places, I poked around in the tack room until I found the big yellow plastic wheelbarrow. Gah, the thing is absolutely hideous, but it is light and really deep. I go back to Amber's stall and proceed to pick up the piles and dig up the wet spot, my mind silently turning back to my dead friend while I work. 

Michael had been there for me through so much and in the end, when it really mattered, I hadn't been there for him. When we got back to school following Christmas break, he and Richard had had some sort of argument. I've never found out what it was all about, but ultimately they had broken up. Apparently, but once again unknown to me, Michael had argued with his parents on the phone the three days he had been here with us. I knew that his mobile had rang a couple of times, but he always took it outside and I was never one to snoop, mainly because I believed that if it had been important he would have told me about it.

That makes me a fool then, I guess.

I finished cleaning Amber's stall and put the business end of the pitchfork into the wheelbarrow and pushed it down the aisle and out the doors to the muck heap. I pulled the fork out of the way and flipped the wheelbarrow over to empty it. I then pushed it back up the aisle and across the indoor arena to the pile of shavings. I filled the wheelbarrow with the clean shavings and dumped it in the center of Amber's stall. After pushing the wheelbarrow back out into the aisle way, I smoothed the bedding down with the pitchfork. I worked quickly and precisely. I had been cleaning stalls almost as long as I had been hanging out down here in my free time. I never wanted anyone to think that I thought myself above any job, and sometimes I even filled in for stable hands who needed a day off. I enjoyed the work.

I turned back to where I had left the wheelbarrow to find myself looking upward into a pair of blue eyes. Darren had his gloved hands wrapped around the handles of the wheelbarrow and was looking at me with a mixture of annoyance and something I failed completely to recognize. (Oh to have Papa's deducing skills about now would be nice.)

"Sorry." I mumbled. Darren was picky about keeping the aisle way clean, especially at feeding time. He had already opened the gate to the back paddock and the mares were slowly winding their way into the barn and turning into their stalls, all on their own. He held out a hand and I handed him the pitchfork. He nodded at me in appreciation and turned away just as Amber came to a halt outside her stall. A perfect halt, too. Not the half-hearted one she liked to give me when we tried dressage, where she would only stop on three legs with the other one still moving. Figures.

Mares. I sighed and patted her barrel as she walked past me. If she had been human, I could swear she was giving Darren a naughty look out from underneath that thick black forelock. I did not feel much like laughing, but my horse always made me smile. I love these little hairy cobs and she could have as much attitude as she wanted and I think I'd still love her. Who wouldn't love a horse that didn't flinch when you pulled the trigger on her back? She was amazing.

I clicked the latch on her stall door and slowly made my way back up to the house. No doubt my dads would be waiting on me and possibly an explanation for my earlier behavior. What could I tell them that at least one of them didn't already know, and possibly the other one suspected? They both knew that my best friend had killed himself and that it had hurt me in ways I never even thought possible. They understood all of that, I'm sure, and were willing to give me the space I needed to work through it. They knew that I had found him there in the dorm that day. Daddy knew what it was like to see death and be unable to prevent it, so he knew I needed time. 

What they didn't know, however, and what I was so lax to tell them or possibly even admit to myself is that he had used my own weapon to do it.

 

 


	4. Anger and Grief

**Chapter 4: Anger and Grief**

I am feeling somewhat better now, lighter somehow. And hungry. The smell of dinner wafts through the door so softly that it’s almost like a caress. I’m not sure why I came back in through the front door but here I am so I toe off my trainers and pull off my dirty socks, stuffing them into the shoes for reasons I can’t explain.

I pad into the kitchen and note that Daddy is alone at the table. Everyone else has already eaten, then. I move toward his chair and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. I want to apologize and I want to explain, but the words aren’t coming easily. (I have been reliably informed that this is a genetic maker in the Holmes DNA strand: the inability to apologize.)

Daddy pats my arms and pulls me into one of the empty chairs. He pulls a warm plate of roast chicken and vegetables out of the oven and sets it in front of me. He takes a half-full bottle of wine out of the refrigerator and pours himself and me a glass without asking. He has said absolutely nothing to me in the past few minutes, but I can clearly see what he is saying. Loudly.

He is not happy with me walking out after such an emotional outburst like that (again, the DNA thing) but he understands why I would feel like I needed to do that. The quirk of his eyebrow lets me know clearly that he knows I’ve spent the entire afternoon in the hayloft.

“Sophie, did you enjoy wading through my notebook?” I’ve got a mouthful of chicken, so I nod. Vigorously.

“Did it give you any ideas?” He asks me, quietly. He sips from his wine glass.

I finish my bite of chicken and have a sip from my own glass. “Yes. But I think I learned a lot more about you and Papa along the way.”

He smiles proudly at me. I would give anything for him to look at me like that every single day of my life. But this secret I’ve been carrying around is probably going to change that look around completely.

“That is partly the reason I gave it to you, Sophie. When you were younger there were _things_ that were very difficult for me to discuss with you. Your Papa has a huge heart. You have to understand that he never tries to _change_ anything or anyone around him, he just accepts what’s there and uses it for whatever purpose it serves.”

I spear some carrots onto my fork. “That is difficult, Daddy. It is difficult to just _accept_ things as they are. Sometimes I want to change everything that has happened in the past few weeks…” I let my sentence trail off when I feel the tears pushing against the backs of my eyes. I lay my fork down beside my plate and reach for the wineglass again.

It’s sweet and goes down slowly, cooling my throat and helping to fight off that constricting feeling. In mere seconds I feel like I can breathe again.

“Baby girl, please understand that you really have nothing to blame yourself for. Michael was in pain and he released it the only way he knew how.” Daddy holds my gaze with his own. He can be fierce when he wants to be.

I nod and take another bite. It gives me time to think about wording this. “Do you remember the air gun that you gave me to practice with when I was at school?”

“Yeah, I remember. But you weren’t supposed to take it with you.” He is searching my face now. I am glad Papa isn’t around at the moment.

“I didn’t.” He sits back and folds his hands together on the table. He nods at me, patiently waiting.

“Daddy, I took the Browning.” I can only stare down at the table now. My dinner tastes like ashes in my mouth and the wine like vinegar. I push the plate away from me.

Daddy sits still for a time, contemplating. I have never lied to either of my parents. I try to tell myself that I did not lie about this, I merely left out information. It is hard to believe that at twenty years old I feel a heck of a lot younger. Daddy’s disappointment washes over me in waves. For some reason, now the tears won’t even come. I am going to get what I deserve.

“I have no excuse.” I say to him and look him straight in the eyes. “I don’t even know why I took the thing last time I was home.” I had been using it quite a bit when I was home last time, getting used to the feel of it my hand so that when I did use it I would know the weapon well. It takes a lot of concentration to aim and fire while keeping a galloping horse in check. I don’t need to say all this, though, because it will only come out like a justification.

Daddy’s eyes are blue steel. I can only imagine what is going through his mind. Very carefully he speaks to me, perhaps considering that I might run away again. I want to remind him that I am not Papa, that I usually face my problems head-on. But I keep my mouth shut. He is weighing me now, considering the impact of his words.

“Alright, Sophie. You are no longer a child, so there are not too many options for me here. You realized the risk when you put the thing into your suitcase. I will not berate you for that. You must consider what would have happened had it fallen into the wrong hands.

Papa and I have always tried to keep you out of the thick of things. Our lives were not always as easy as they are now—there are bad guys out there who would….”

He paused here. I waited. My fingernails became suddenly very interesting. “You know what? You are already aware of all of those things, Sophie.” I open my mouth in an attempt to explain some more and he holds his hand up. I shut my trap.

“You are not a child, Sophie, so I am not going to talk to you like you are. You realize your actions were wrong, but I will say it one more time: you cannot take the blame for Michael’s death. Honey, if the weapon would not have been present, he may have found another way. Pills. Jump…” he shakes his head as if to clear it. “He might have slit his wrists, anything really. This was just convenient.”

I nod and bite at my bottom lip. I can no longer hold the tears back but the horrible feeling of guilt is not as heavy on my shoulders as it was a little while ago.

“What you need to consider is the entire sad situation. Your friend was hurting and he felt that this was the only option left to him.”

He is right. He is always right.

I had not been in the dorm all day that day. I had been in my classes and then in the library for several hours, working on research for my dissertation. One that would probably go unfinished for all time, I thought.

Daddy reaches across the table and holds my hands in his, our palms pressed together. It grounded me, keeping me in reality. Funny, I had seen him do this with Papa so many times and I never understood. “I am so sorry, Daddy. Really.”

He squeezes my hands firmly and lets go as he stands. I have to look up at him when he speaks.

“Sophie, we love you very much. You know that you can come to us with anything. When you took off this morning, I thought….”

Oh Daddy. Don’t say it. It was never even in my thoughts. I stand and move around to his side of the table and hug him close. We hold onto each other the way we always have, as if we are anchoring each other. This embrace threatens to take me back in time, but I need to be here, right now.

“Daddy, no. I could never do that to you. Or Papa, but especially to you. I just needed some space to get my head right. I know we haven’t talked much since I’ve been home, but I was afraid. I was afraid that it was all my fault and I should know better. I feel like a little kid again, Daddy, it wasn’t fair. Michael was a _good_ person and he was always there for me and now I have no one…”

I was crying again. Sobbing against my father like a toddler with scraped shins. I felt so stupid but I could no longer hold it back.

I did not cry when I found Michael lying on his bed, eyes frozen in time. I did not cry when I took the gun out of his hand and closed his eyes, my own hand becoming blood stained. I did not cry when the paramedics and the police took my statement. I admitted to removing the weapon from his hand where it was barely hanging on slack fingers, but I did not admit to responsibility for the weapon. I did not cry. I did not weep when they took the gun away in a yellow evidence folder. I knew it was unregistered and I knew it could never be traced back to my father.

I know all these things because I have paid attention to the cases that I studied and have written about. I never meant to be a criminal, but I had to protect my family. I wish I could have protected my friend. Still I did not shed a tear.

At the funeral last week, I just felt lost. Daddy and Papa stood and wrapped their arms around me. I just stared straight ahead and willed it to be over. I felt the knot of my fathers’ fingers twined into each other. They were quiet, allowing me the space I needed to grieve. But I didn’t grieve. I was guilty.

Mr. and Mrs. Tripp had paid me a visit as we were leaving the cemetery. Uncle Mikey had loaned us one of his cars and Papa was driving. Daddy was already in the passenger seat and I was opening the back door of the sedan. Mrs. Tripp had grabbed my arm with a clawed hand. Her face was blotchy and angry. Mr. Tripp stood behind me, blocking my way as if he thought I would escape.

Mrs. Tripp had an iron grip on my forearm. She leaned in very close to me, her eyes boring into my own.

“You filthy little whore.” I stared at her, stunned. After all these years, I had no idea she felt this way about me. Her fingers dug into my skin. She was right in my face. I could feel the heat coming off of hers. “I knew that you were no good for my son. Living in a house of sin with those men…”

She was never able to finish her sentence. Papa had stepped out of the car and was grasping her shoulders with both of his hands. Daddy had Mr. Tripp’s hands behind his back, holding them in a single one of his own. He was telling Mr. Tripp in no uncertain terms that if he opened his big fat mouth that he was going to find out how it felt to be taken down to the ground by an ex-soldier in the Queen’s Army.

Everything had slowed down for me. I was suddenly hyper aware of what these two men were capable of, given any circumstance. Many years of people walking right up to my fathers and hugging them or shaking their hands was instantly explained to me.

When time went back to normal speed, Papa’s hand was on my back and he was urging me into the car. His face was red and he was actually grinding his teeth. I had never seen him so angry. Mrs. Tripp had backed off rather quickly and had pulled Mr. Tripp away from Daddy (of course Daddy obliged) and the two of them had stormed off in a huff.

Daddy climbed into the back seat with me and I can remember feeling like I was in a dream. I was going to wake up and it would have all been a lie. I do not remember much else about that day except there were several times when I felt like I was floating, not quite myself but unsure of who I was anyway. I do recall Daddy talking to me and holding my hand. He spoke carefully to me as if I might run away. I remember the pain in his eyes and I remember wanting to make it go away.

I remember feeling like it was all my fault. Childish, yes, but this was so much to handle all at one time.

I am pulled back into the here and now when Papa makes a dramatic entrance into the kitchen. He is wearing an old, almost transparent dressing gown and grey striped pajama bottoms. He stops in the doorway and I can feel him sizing up the situation. I let go of Daddy and turn to him, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek as I pass by.

They will have much to discuss tonight and I simply cannot bear to see what I am sure will be a disappointed look in Papa’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this being so long and rambling. I just really want you all to know Sophie like I do. Thank you for reading!


	5. Horseshoes and Targets

**Chapter 5: Horseshoes and Targets**

The next few days pass in a blur for me. I have so much preparation to do. We are going to use my targets, so those have to be taken apart and loaded into the lorry. Uncle Greg and I are in charge of loading the targets while Daddy carefully winds up the twine that bind the large colorful placards to the wooden easels we will be using on the show grounds. The targets are attached to the easels and then the space behind the targets will be filled with straw to stop whichever projectiles will be fired into them. Behind the targets will be long stretches of land where no one is permitted to walk or ride.

Naturally, I am only going to be using my bow. Daddy’s Browning did show back up, thanks to the postal service, but I am giving the topic a wide berth at the moment. He hasn’t mentioned it again, so I will respect that and keep moving forward. 

After loading the targets up and making sure everything is tied down securely, I head back to the barn to get Amber out of her stall. Her eyes calmly pick up every single movement that I make. This is what makes her such an amazing creature, she just takes everything in stride. I chuckle silently to myself when I think that she reminds me of Daddy. I go about getting her out and putting her in the cross-ties for a thorough grooming. I know its strange that at my age I still refer to my ex-soldier father as "Daddy" but its what he will always be to me. As many thousands of words that I have written and I have absolutely none to explain this particular phenomenon. Daddy told me it was months before I gave Papa a title and I did it all on my own. That thought makes me smile. I don't know if I will ever have children, but I can only hope to be half the parent they have been to me. I grab the lunge line hanging on the hook on her door and swing it over my arm. 

I shake off the feeling of impending blues and concentrate on my curry comb. Amber has stamped one hoof and laid her eyes back. Yeah, I guess I've been too focused on one spot. I asked the grooms to give her a bath yesterday and she was in all night, so I know she's about as clean as she can get. I move to clean her hooves and get a little wicked foot pulled out of my hands for spite. I make a growling sound back in my throat and the foot comes back into my hands as-nice-as-you please. She's just reminding me that she has other things to do like sleep and munch on her hay. 

Amber's hooves are good and clean and I've double checked her horseshoes to make sure they are all nice and snug. I figure she's got about another two weeks before they need to be done again, so she's really good to go for tomorrow. We walk out away from the barn and I clip the lunge line to her halter ring. I need to put her costume on and double-check it, but she's worn it before so I think its going to be okay. As she trots out for me, I think about how wonderful she looks in the purple satin. I stop her with a slight tug on the line and she turns to face me. With a click of my tongue, she turns the other direction and moves out, the black feathering around her feet moving gracefully. It always reminds me of flames for some reason. 

After her workout, I roll the line partway up in my hand and we walk around for a bit. Amber crops at the grass and I marvel about how its been almost an entire morning since I thought of Michael. Maybe I am getting better. I take Amber back to her stall and head back to the house. 

There are raised voices in the sitting room as I come through the back door. I open it cautiously and note my Papa standing toe-to-toe with Uncle Mikey. Its been a while since there's been an argument of this magnitude, so who can blame me if I stand there and watch? Uncle Mikey is only about about five centimeters shorter than Papa, but Papa's hair is wild today and makes it seem like much more. Papa's eyebrows are furrowed in anger but Uncle Mikey's face is blood red. He's leaning on his brolly that is planted on its point on the floor and Papa is leaning forward, crowding into his brother's space. I've no doubt that umbrella could be a weapon, but I'm hoping they both have the good sense to back off before something drastic (or more than usual anyway) happens between them. 

Papa's voice is almost shaking the foundations. "I WILL not stop her, Mycroft. If we cannot trust YOUR security, then I will do it myself!" Papa's hands are clenched into fists. Wow, this is serious, then. 

Uncle Mycroft opens his mouth to reply and then turns towards me, his teeth snapping together audibly. It amuses me when he notices things seconds before Papa, but I will never tell either one of them that. His face changes colors from beet to salmon. He grits his teeth and takes a step back, obviously fighting for control. His closed jaw moves forward a bit and he juts out his chin and slowly shakes his head. It all happens so quickly that I am sure an outsider would miss it. I'm no outsider. He takes a deep breath and turns his entire body my way. 

"Sophie, good to see you. I need to ask your opinion..." he says to me, all smooth charm. The rage of a few seconds ago seems to have disappeared. I know better.

"No!" Papa yells and puts both arms out as if to shove Uncle Mikey. Just as quickly, I step between them and Papa freezes on the spot. I learned years ago that I'm the only other person besides Daddy who can do this to Papa without getting hurt. I love them both, I don't want this to go badly. Papa glares at me and then huffs. His hands are unclenched and so I grab one of them. I hold my other hand out towards Uncle Mikey's chest, fingers splayed in the universal sign of _wait_. They both take deep breaths, but they are still glaring at each other. 

Once the temperature goes down in the room, I walk toward Papa, effectively pushing him away from myself. He moves backwards and drops onto the sofa. Uncle Mikey, quick on the uptake, sits down in one of the squashy armchairs in front of the cool fireplace. I stand between them. We have played this game before. I wonder, for just an instant, where Daddy has gotten to. This is usually his job. 

"Alright." Its funny how my voice comes out as a squeak. "Alright. There is something happening and it involves me. I want to know." My voice sounds oddly alien to my own ears. There's sputtering from the couch but silence from the chair. I look over and Uncle Mikey's eyebrows have shot up into his hairline. Oddly, I consider how much thinner that hairline has become in recent years. 

I turn my head to take it both of them, but I don't move. I'm not very intimidating, but I try. "Papa, what's going on?" He opens his mouth and then shuts it. I want to laugh, but I don't. Must be serious to render him speechless. He holds out one hand towards Uncle Mikey. Fine. Someone's going to tell me.

"Sophie, you may want to sit down." He nods towards the other chair.

Nope, I am _not_ playing this game. I hold my ground. 

He sighs. "Fine. There are some bad guys..."

For God's sake. "Uncle Mikey, I know it's hard to believe, but I really am not twelve years old anymore. I know what happens in the big, bad world out there, so will you just lay it out already?" I can feel the aggravation that Papa often has with the simpleminded boiling in my veins. I turn my head towards him and he is looking at me with a mix of pride and surprise. Finally, I've done something right. 

Uncle Mikey purses his lips into a straight line. He says simply "They threatened to kidnap you at the exhibition tomorrow. Is that straight forward enough?" 

Yep. And what the hell is this, he wants to argue with me now? I have had enough. Everything from the past few weeks has just worn me down. I am no longer in the denial and guilt phase of grief, now I'm just pissed. 

"What the hell, _Mycroft?_ " I put the snarky spin on his name that I've heard Daddy use. I don't mean to rise to the bait, I really don't. It's just that I do not need anything else right now. Uncle Mikey, whom I have always gotten along with and whom I've always felt affection for, is staring me down like I just threatened to overthrow some tiny little government somewhere without asking his permission first. In the back of my mind, I hear Papa snicker. I am also aware that he has stood up and is studying the proceedings gleefully. 

Uncle Mikey slowly rises from his chair. For a second, I actually think he's going to verbally take me on. Instead he just looks at me. That's even worse than an argument. In that instant I am a teenager again. I'm angry and I'm tired of being protected. This thing between these two will go on until the sun stops shining. I should never have tried to get into the middle of it. I miss my best friend, I miss the calm, quiet afternoons passed in the library, I miss...just everything. I don't care that someone has threatened me. Daddy and Papa are like superheroes and they have never let anything happen to me, I'm sure there's been threats before. I want to go to the show tomorrow and I want to shoot at inanimate objects and _nothing_ is going to take that away from me. I am so tired. 

I know that I have now laid all my cards on the table. I know that Uncle Mikey can see the guilt I feel over my friend's death written all over my face. I did not want to share that with him, I barely wanted Papa to know. 

I turn my back on them, Uncle Mikey clears his throat to say something and honestly, I can't make myself care. I don't care. I can feel that Papa has moved toward me, maybe to embrace me but I can't stand it anymore. Things are just never going to be right. I'm just so tired. 

I open the door that I came through a few minutes ago. I hear myself telling them that I just don't care. I have never lived in my fathers' shadows and I'm not about to start doing it now. I thought I had put all this pain behind me, but it is still as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Daddy is going to be so disappointed in me. Papa will be....I don't even know. 

My bare feet carry me back down the the stables and without thinking, I open Amber's door. Once she's out I hop up onto her back and head out towards the woods. I lean down on her neck, using my things to guide her. I'm not dressed for this, but I need to move. I need to shut my brain off for a while, I need to make all the pictures that I have seen everyday in my head disappear. I'm not sure about anything anymore. I must be the worst daughter to just run out on them again, but I can't take it. All this pressure. It's selfish, I know. I've never felt like this before and I feel like I'm going to explode. I'm half tempted to grab my bow and quiver out of the already-packed truck and just shoot at whatever as we go by. It's a fleeting thought that I do not respond to. 

Amber has picked up speed underneath me and soon we are streaming across the practice fields. We crash through the woods and come out into another large field on the other side. I've been down here before, its where the grooms from our stable and several neighboring ones used to get together and race. Daddy says he even joined them a couple of times. I lean down even lower on Amber's neck and feel the rush of the wind against my face. Her hoof beats are steady and I can feel myself coming back down to earth. Then she is stopping and I am flipping over the neck I was so comfortably leaning over a few seconds ago.

There's pain down my side and the report of a gunshot and the world goes black. 

 

 


	6. Danger and Headaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lamp goes out and I am plunged into darkness.

**Chapter 6: Danger and Headaches**

I don’t want to open my eyes. There’s a pounding inside my head the likes I’ve never experienced before, ever. It feels like someone is smacking the backside of my skull with a cricket bat. I can feel that my hands are restrained behind my back. My legs won’t move at all, so I am assuming that they are restrained, as well. I roll my head back and forth and there is bright lights behind the eyelids I still refuse to open.

I think about all of the stories Daddy has told me over the years. Stories about how he was kidnapped a couple of times, one of which resulted in being strapped to a Semtex vest. Oh god. Even without opening my eyes the world is spinning. How is that even possible?

I’ve got to get control of myself. I’ve been off horses before; I’ve even had a couple of broken ribs and a wrist to prove it. I open my eyes when the first wave of nausea hits and I then I black out again.  

Sometime later, I really have no idea how long, I open my eyes and I can actually see out of them without feeling like I’m looking through Batman’s mask. I slowly work out that I am lying on the floor of an empty room with a grey carpet. The walls are neglected-dirty white and there is a lamp of sorts in the corner. My mouth is not covered and as I slowly move my fingers, I realize that my restraints have been removed.

The lamp in the corner is sitting on a little table. On that table is a glass with what appears to be water in it and beside that is a banana.

I’m not sure why I am here but I am sure I’m not touching either of those things. I just wiggle myself across the floor until I am sitting with my back against the wall, facing the only door in the room. There are no windows.

I get my breathing under control, as I so want to hyperventilate. That will not help me now. I don’t know what to do. I’m still barefoot and wearing the clothes that had on when I stormed out of the house. Oh god.

I remember Amber galloping through the woods. I remember that _sound_. No. I can’t bare the thought that something has happened to my horse.

I left the house with no warning, surely Papa knows where I was headed, he always _knows._

I do believe I am hyperventilating now. I can’t stop myself, I’m more frightened now than I have ever been.

The last thing Uncle Mikey said, the thing about someone wanting to kidnap me? Could this be it? I lean my head down into my hands and here I am, crying again. Daddy is going to kill me. All I can do is hope they find me before….

The lamp goes out and I am plunged into darkness.


	7. Sherlock and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought I would shake things up a bit. We are going to let Sophie sleep for a little while and look in on what's happening up at the house.

**Chapter 7: Sherlock and John**

_Sherlock_

I have not had any desire to strangle my brother so badly as I did today. I don't care what he does to me (haven't cared for _years_ ) but he is not going to involve our daughter into his barmy schemes. Ever. This foolish idea that John and I are overprotecting our twenty-year-old daughter to the point where she seems much younger...

Maybe he has a point. A little one.

A teeny tiny point like his teeny tiny head. Wish I could say the same thing about his waistline. I chuckle to myself.

That whole scene ought to never be repeated. Sophie should not have felt that she had to get between us like that. I sit back on the sofa and I kick my feet up on the coffee table. I can still see the anger on her face, but I've got to give credit where it's due. I think she is the only other person on this planet besides John and myself with enough guts to fight back at Mycroft. I have to admit to feeling a little bit proud and yes, even a bit mystified.

I let out a sigh. I try every single day to understand what is happening in her head, but I am only have the barest minimum of luck. As always, John seems so much better equipped to handle these emotional melt downs than I. Mycroft's and my arguments never seem to have bothered her this much before.

After Sophie vacated the room at top speed, Mycroft stood here and just _looked_ at me. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of backing down. I meant what I said. These types of threats have been coming in since she was a baby, why burden her with them now? We have always attempted to keep her out of the public eye as much as possible, but in the same sense, we have to give her freedom to explore her own interests. Its hard for me to believe that any kidnapper worth his or her salt would not even try to nab someone so well known at a public venue. That would be incredibly stupid.

Besides, we have always had Mycroft's security here plus John is out at the moment checking into the disturbance from earlier. Some stupid git tried to get through the front gate. Fool. The call came in and we decided John could handle it while I stayed here and waited for Sophie to get back. Just like we have always done.

I think I am starting to see Mycroft's point. Damn.

Maybe it is high time that we sit down and explain the situation to her a little better. Problem number one, I have no desire to take away the things she enjoys. Problem number two; I guess problem number two is me. I know what it feels like to constantly have surveillance following you around. We agreed when Sophie was little that we would always attempt to keep her life as "normal" as possible.

Maybe we failed. Maybe she feels more controlled than she really is. I need to consider this for a while.

I sit quietly for a few moments until I hear the kitchen door slam. John is not in a good mood, so we will have this discussion later.

 

_John_

I am cursing under my breath as I turn away from the front gate and back towards the house. Miriam, the guard, told me that this idiot has been here before. He must be some sort of reporter, I don't know. She did the best she could under the circumstances, but when the stupid fool started to _climb_ the fence, she had to use some kind of force. Glad we let Mycroft arm our guards with tasers, the idiot is better off in hospital than the morgue. Just because he's stupid doesn't mean it's worth dying over. Miriam was calm and collected by the time I arrived. She did well. I am going to suggest a commendation.

Walking up the front path, I can see the front door of the house, plus part of the back yard. I see my daughter barrel out towards the stables and I stand still for a moment and watch her. She's barefoot, which is a little odd, but not unheard of. Mycroft's car drove through the gate while I was finishing up with Miriam. I'm sure I can bet that for whatever reason Sophie just darted out the back door it involves him.

I stand there long enough to see Sophie and Amber leave the stables, almost at a canter already. I trust my daughter, she's an excellent horsewoman and probably just needs a breather. Sophie's long brown hair and Amber's thick black tail stream out behind the two of them like flags. I'll never tell my daughter how beautiful that sight is to me. I am pretty amazed with how quickly she picked up weaponry and I am always impressed with her skill. I understand why she took the Browning without even considering it, though it was a pretty dumb thing to do. The kicker, though, Michael. He was such a good kid....

Geez I must be getting old. Considering a twenty-one year old man to be a _kid_. Ah well. Back to problem at hand, I guess.

I open the kitchen door and just let it slam. Hopefully it will knock my husband out of whatever sulk I am sure I am walking into. I cross through the kitchen and into the sitting room, not even bothering to take my shoes off. It is my house, after all.

Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the sofa and his stockinged feet are planted firmly on the coffee table. God he always looks fantastic.

I drop down beside him and he opens one eye. Damn git looks like an owl. He turns his head toward me and I reach out to touch his face. It's a movement I know I have done a million times, but as always the fire in his eyes pulls my entire world to one single point. After all these years it still amazes me. He turns his upper body towards me and wraps his arm around my back, pulling me towards him. His eyes close and his lips brush my cheek and then my lips. For a few moments there is nothing but him. I am aware of my own self floating out there somewhere, but right now I am inconsequential, right now we are just one single being.

We pull apart gently and I am seriously considering dragging him upstairs for a quiet afternoon shag when there is a loud bang on the front door. I sit back into the cushions and readjust myself. Sherlock smirks at me and heads for the door. After a few seconds, I am composed enough to check it out.

As I cross through the kitchen, I can hear Darren's voice. He's a strapping young lad employed down the stables. I've run into him a few times and he seems to be an excellent employee, if a bit rough around the edges.

Darren has stepped into the foyer. Sherlock is standing with his back to me and his hands down at his sides. His hands are clenched into fists. I step up next to him and place my hand palm down on the small of his back. Darren has yet to say a word.

"Darren, you are welcome to speak." Sherlock's voice is still full of passion, and I hope I'm the only one that can hear it.

Darren closes his eyes for a moment as if to compose himself. When he does finally open his mouth, I am astounded at the tremor in his voice.

"Misters, it's about Sophie." He pauses for a second, perhaps checking to see which one of us is going to cold cock him in the jaw. "She, um. I saw him come into the barn. She pulled Amber out of her stall and hopped on bareback. I was, um, in the tack room."

He did not have to say that he's been watching our daughter for some time, waiting for the right moment to approach her. I know Sherlock could see what was so obvious to me. Sherlock's muscles were tense under my hand.

"Anyway, she." That annoying pause again. Out with it! He shook his head a little and spread his feet. My heart stopped. I knew what he was going to say before the words came out of his mouth. She was hurt. I started to turn around and fetch the first aid kit but Sherlock's hand on my shoulder rooted me to the spot. As always, he was ten steps ahead of the game.

"Where?" Spoken gently but urgently.

Darren had not been employed here long, but at least he was smart enough to catch up with my husband. Sherlock bent down to pull on some boots and I grabbed my jacket off the hook. In a matter of seconds, he had his long coat on and we were out the door, Darren in the lead.

_Sherlock_

I know John felt me tense up as soon as the situation was clear to me. He turned and tried to go for the first aid kit, but I had already ascertained that it would be a useless waste of time. I only had the urge to get moving.

This young man led us out through the back pasture and through the trees, out into the larger field. I already had the majority of situation established by the time we reached Sophie's mare. Hoof prints showed me clearly that my daughter had pushed the little horse at breakneck speed through the trees, to crash out on this side. I quickly asked the stable hand if he had a mobile with him and when he answered in the affirmative, I requested that he call the veterinarian.

The little bay cob was standing in the center of the field, one hind leg resting on a cocked hoof. She had some blood running down the leg, but what draws my eye is her neck. There is a nasty wound high on her crest, but I can only see part of it. I approach the little mare quietly and reach out to her. John has taken her halter in hand and is murmuring little calming nothings to the horse. She is trembling and her coat is wet with sweat. Foam is dripping from her lips. I gently reach up and push her mane over to the other side of her neck. A bullet hole. It seems to have passed right through the thick muscle there under her hairline. The wound is clean but bloody. The most damage seems to be to the muscle, but as it seems to have missed any important blood vessels, I have confidence that she will pull through.

Our local veterinarian arrives within minutes and I leave him to deal with the horse. A lead rope has materialized and the stable hand gently takes the mare's head. I lock my gaze into John's and I do not have to say a word. As the vet and stable hand walk away with the horse, he stands still with his hands at his sides. I nod to him and point at the footprints all over the ground. The immediate emergency has been quarantined. Now we need to find our daughter.

_John_

I watch the vet and Darren walk the mare away from us and back toward the stables. I can't think. My mind is reeling. Sophie should have been here. She would have already called the vet, she would have notified us that something was wrong. Sherlock points at the ground and my mind clears for a moment. There are hoof prints, Amber's are pretty distinctive since her shoes have little caulks welded onto the heel bars for extra traction when Sophie is shooting targets from her back. They make little divots in the soft ground. My eyes follow the trail immediately. I can read where they came out of the trees on this side, and exactly where they were stopped. There is an imprint on the ground I am assuming is from where Sophie fell. Even the best rider is going to come off when their mount is stopped suddenly by a bullet.

I saw the damage to Amber's neck and it terrifies me, even though I am aware that it is not fatal. I do not have the luxury of reacting right now, however, I've got to concentrate. I watch as Sherlock follows the hoof prints and then leans down. He picks up something small and holds it out to me. The spent round. It's got blood drying on it. I can't help but suppress a shudder. I've got to keep my head clear.

There are two clear prints of bare feet and several others of heavy boots.

"There were two of them. The bare prints are Sophie's." Sherlock turns to me, sizing me up. I nod.

He turns to follow as much of the trail as he can see. I follow him and try not to mess up the prints too badly.

We get to the other side of the clearing and there are tire tracks now, where a vehicle was pulled off of the shoulder of the road. Sherlock easily hops over the fence while I struggle just a bit. We both stare down at the mud and then at the asphalt. I am starting to feel the situation. My hand is trembling, something it hasn't done in years.

The sound of Sherlock's voice forces me back into the moment. He is talking into his phone. Mycroft. He hangs up and reaches out to me. I step closer to his body and press my face against his chest. His heartbeat is strong and I can only consider that mine is racing. I take a moment and just breathe him in. Finally, the trembling in my hand stops and I step back away from him. The hand that is not resting on my back is busy pushing buttons on his phone. His eyes turn toward mine and he nods.

Lestrade is on his way then, assuredly with back up. Mycroft's security team will be here in minutes. All we have to do now is follow the trail and get our daughter back. We have always been aware that something like this could happen, there's always been a contingency plan. I had always hoped we wouldn't need it.

Now I am once again a soldier. We will find her. Part of me is still, cold, waiting. Once I get my hands on whomever has done this, there will be hell to pay.

The other part of me is broiling with fear. I just hope we aren't too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all my wonderful readers who have been following this story and bearing through a slow start. Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	8. Silver and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sophie.

I came to very slowly. I was still sitting against the wall facing the door. I felt sluggish and slightly lightheaded, probably a combination of stress and low blood sugar. Since there wasn't anything for it at this point, I just waited. The same jingly and scratchy sound that I didn't identify at first. Very slowly the door opened, creaking as it was pushed back on its hinges. Dim light peaked around the thin figure who stood in the doorway.

My whole body tensed up and I just waited. The figure stepped into the doorway and little more and I could make out some vague features: a girl, just a bit thinner than me but taller. Since the lamp in my room had blown, I had been sitting in the door going between sleep and wakefulness. My eyes and head really appreciated the dim back lighting. 

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse with disuse. 

She did not answer but stepped toward me and held out her hands. I did not even hesitate. From the first moment I woke up here, it seemed no one had been trying to hurt me. I figured a little bit of trust might go a long way at this point. I grasped her hands and stood up on shaking legs to discover that I was fairly sore from hitting the ground when Amber was pulled up short. I quickly banished the thought from my mind. If this was going to be dangerous, I needed my wits about me. I could deal with it all later, if I ever got home, that is. 

This girl is really tall and seems to be a few years older than me, from what I can discern of her face in the dim light. Her hair is dark and cropped very close, almost a buzz cut. She is wearing black jeans and a long black tunic that seems to be made of some sheer material. She turned her head towards me and I noted that silver rings (I counted five of them) graced the lobe of each ear. She is barefoot. I follow her from the tiny room down a long hallway and into a surprisingly large eat-in kitchen. 

She pulls a chair out for me from a dark wooden table, so I sit down. So far this kidnapped business is awfully pleasant. That was a stupid thought. 

I watch her closely but she seems to offer me no malice. She is quiet but quick and within a few seconds she has come around to the table with a plate of sandwiches and cans of Coke. She sits down across the table from me but I am still hesitant to take anything offered. I have been kidnapped, you know. She just cocks an eyebrow at me (which is adorned with a small silver ball) and tucks into one of the sandwiches. It does not appear that she was picky about which one she grabbed and I am starting to feel a little faint. I need to eat and since I really have no idea how long I've been here, I really need to make the best of the situation. I grab one of the sandwiches off the plate and realize I am so hungry that I can barely the taste the roast beef and Swiss on rye. I close my eyes for a moment and Daddy's face swims into my view. I need to keep control of myself. I know they will find me, it's what they do. I need to stay calm. 

I have already finished two sandwiches and I'm starting on the third when the girl across from me decides to talk. Her voice is soft and airy, someone who perhaps is a bit shy? 

"My name is Heather." I swallow the bite I just took from the bread and take a swig from my Coke can (the second one.) I try hard to think like Papa, but she is giving nothing away. Her name doesn't mean anything to me. 

She sits with her hands folded on the table, palms down. Perhaps to show me that she means no harm? 

"Sophie, you are here because my mom did something really stupid and I need your dads to fix it for me."

Say what? I almost choke but somehow manage to hold it all together. I clear my throat. "Well, you could have just asked me that. What's with all this?" I wave my hand around the room. I am really not sure what the proper kidnapper-kidnapee etiquette is. 

Heather shrugs her shoulders in my direction and picks up another sandwich. I'm starting to think we have a magic plate here, it just keeps giving and giving... I am starting to feel a little more normal now, not quite as woozy. Since it seems like no one is going to come flying into the room armed, I've got to ask some more question. She chews thoughtfully and nods at me, I've got the floor. Alright. 

"So let me get this straight. You want my dads' help. Fine. Wouldn't there have been an easier way, to I don't know, maybe send an email or knock on the front door? And what about my horse? If she's badly injured..."

Heather held up a hand to stop me. She was awfully good at this for someone so young. "Yes. That was unfortunate. I do believe the little mare is okay, but she did sustain an injury to her neck. Apparently some people could botch the easiest jobs." 

I get the feeling I'm not going to get much more about that out of her. Fine.

"So why then?"

"Mom always said the easiest way to get Sherlock's undivided attention is to give him a puzzle to solve."

Well, now, that's pretty much the truth. I can't argue with it. "You do realize that when they find me, and they will, they are going to be coming in for blood, right?" This whole conversation is so surreal. 

"Yeah, I considered that. But I think I can make them understand that I really mean you no harm. I really need some help."

Where exactly is this going? I look at her again, trying to find something I missed before (which was probably everything.) Nothing about her has changed in the past few minutes. I have noticed that her skin is a few shades darker than my own, her eyes are hazel--almost copper, and she's also got a stud in her nose. Well, so far I can tell she likes piercings and her parentage is probably something exotic. Her accent though, is all England, so no clues there that I can suss out. Papa probably can...No. Can't do this now. 

I sit back a little in my chair and just wait. 

"Sophie, I really didn't mean to keep you in that room for so long. The....people...my associates who are helping me in this situation got a little overly excited and brought you here a day too early. Please accept my apologies."

God how could any female on earth remind me so much of my Uncle Mikey? I guess I should play along. "Alright." That is the best answer I can come up with. 

Heather stands up and moves away from the table. I follow her and find myself in a good-sized bedroom/sitting room suite. There are bookcases all around the walls, a computer on a desk, and a large flat-screened TV. Well, kidnappees can't be choosers I guess. Heather steps back and lets me pass her into the room. 

"I am going to go now, but you can stay in here. Unfortunately, I have to lock the door to make sure you remain safe." Bait, she means. I am the bait for my dads. I am not so sure that Heather knows how dangerous this whole thing could really get. "There is no internet access here, but you can watch the telly and maybe play some games. I'm sorry I have to do this, but there is no other way."

She steps back out of the room and closes the door. My heart is racing and my head is pounding. I wander into the little bathroom, at least there are clean towels and soap. A soak would help the sore muscles. I use the facilities and turn on the faucet. I test the water with my hand, it is good and hot. I let the water run and while I am waiting on the tub to fill, I wander around the room. There are two windows, one in the bedroom area and one in the sitting area. They are both covered with sheer white curtains. I pull the curtains back. The windows have both been reinforced with bars and padlocks. I turn back toward the bathroom on legs that seem to have gone unsteady again. 

Just how long am I going to be here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I made up my own word, there. Do you like it?


	9. Voices and Texts

**Chapter 9- Voices and Texts**

By the next morning I am bored out of my mind. The shade of golden sunlight coming through the windows appears to be early morning. Worry for my dads had kept me from sleeping much, even though the bed was relatively comfortable. Even if I could get a message of some sort to them, it would be okay, I thought. Just something to let them know I am alive and unhurt.

I know Papa is probably miserable, but its Daddy I am most concerned for. I haven’t really spoken to him much about the time Papa was gone; really he had been forced into faking his own death, something I had gleaned from Daddy’s notebook. I know that time is a mixed blessing for them both: it produced me, saved Daddy’s life and taught Papa that sentiment is really not a burden. The time apart gave them the strength they both needed to admit to each other how they felt.

Daddy has never spoken to me (and sometimes I wonder if Papa even knows) about the bleak despair nor of the way he felt like a machine going about endless days. I know he finally went back to work, since he had been on his way to the surgery the day he discovered me and mom died. I hurt for him when I first read the words that he would never post on his blog. I hurt for him now.

I know that I heard a gunshot and if Amber wasn’t badly hurt, do they believe it was me? Surely they realize by now, almost twenty-four hours after the fact, that I’m missing. If I ever get out of here, what am I going to be going home to?

I have to take deep breaths and slow myself down. I am getting overwhelmed and losing perspective. It is so bloody frustrating being unable to reach them in any way. I want to scream and kick things, but logically, I know the only thing that will happen is that I’ll hurt myself. That is no help at all. I’m not prepared for this, not really. I understand in a bad situation you have to keep your cool, but how do I think my way through this when I have absolutely nothing to hand?

I must have dozed off again because I am awakened a little later by raised voices, neither of which, to my disappointment, is male. I get out of bed and slowly move toward the door. I place my ear up against the wood as if would be the voices that more audible. Well, beggars can’t be choosers.

I could hear Heather’s voice, but the other woman with her sounded older, maybe about Papa’s age. I shifted and then just slid to the floor so that my back was against the wood. It was difficult but I did manage to make out the words “photograph,” “mobile,” and “dead.”

Well now, what exactly did _that_ mean? At once, my mind was off and running again, considering all the scenarios that would end up with me being dead. Heather had told me she only wanted me to get my dads’ attention, specifically Papa’s. I was shaking just a little bit, once again losing my cool. I took several deep breaths and could feel some reason return.

I just needed to think this through, just like aiming at a target. Relax, breath, settle into the rhythm of Amber’s canter and then fire. I felt myself relax after a few moments like this. Heather said she did not want to hurt me, which was first thing. Second thing, she was keeping me fed and relatively comfortable, even though I was technically a prisoner. Third thing, she had told me that Amber was never meant to be hurt…but I could not quite trust someone who employed thugs who would shoot at horse. That was unnecessary, considering they could have just snuck up behind me when I was outside the barn.

The sound of light footsteps in the hallway broke into my musings. I jumped up and ran into the little bathroom, clicking that door shut just as the other one opened. Heather called out to me, hopefully believing in my little ruse. I flushed the toilet and made a show of washing my hands, letting the water run a little longer than strictly necessary to prove I hadn’t heard anything.

 I stepped out and noted that Heather had set a large covered tray on the table by the little sofa. The smell of cinnamon wafted to me and my stomach growled. I looked to Heather. She was standing in the middle of the room with one hand on her hip. The other hand she held out toward me and in it her fingers curled around a small mobile phone. I stared at the little black machine like I was a knight finding the Holy Grail. After a few seconds, I tore myself away to look at her face.

She did not exactly smile, but she nodded down towards the phone.

“You get one text message, Sophie. Just one. Don’t try to call _anyone_.” Once again, I am struck by how familiar her bearing seems to be. She opens her hand and I pick up the little phone. I turn my back on her and listen as she flops down on the little two-seater sofa. She grabs the remote off the floor and flicks on the telly. Why this show of ignoring me? You can’t really hear a text message; we both know she’s listening to make sure I don’t place an actual call. There is really no need to be so sly about it.

My mind is a blur. I need to be able to tell them where I am. I need to tell them I am okay, but I think most of all I need to warn them. I know they have dealt with some pretty barmy characters in the past and, all things considered, I think I’m on the same path here. Now, which one do I send the message to?

Daddy was sure to be watching his phone, but he has a bad habit of setting it down in the kitchen and just walking away from it. I could message Uncle Mikey, but he’s also likely to be busy at the moment, as would be Uncle Greg. I push the power button and turn on the little thing. It takes it a few seconds and I note that its an older model, number probably unlisted, and most likely no GPS service available. Well, I’ve got to make due with what I’ve been given.

Finally, I type in Papa’s number and just hope his phone is in his pocket where it seems to be twenty-four seven. He’s pretty obsessive about it. I punch in the message.

_I’m alive n well. Locked in. F Keeper knows U2 says Mom needs UR help. Says did something stupid needs U 2 fix. I love you. Pls come get me.  –Sophie_

I can only hope that its enough as I push the “send” button. Heather has dropped all pretense of listening intently and removes the phone from my hand. She quickly turns the phone off and turn, leaving the room without another word.


	10. John and Sherlock II

_John_

I roll over and grab for the phone that's buzzing against the wooden nightstand. My hazy brain is unsure at this point how I got into bed, nor when. We ran around most of the day chasing down clues that would lead us to our daughter--only for them all to completely flatline. Sherlock was furious by the time we got home about one o'clock this morning. I was beside myself with worry and I remember him making me a whiskey and water... _oh._..Bastard must have slipped me something.

I glance down at the screen and my heart just stops. It's a message from Sophie.

_I’m alive n well. Locked in. F Keeper knows U2 says Mom needs UR help. Says did something stupid needs U 2 fix. I love you. Pls come get me.  –Sophie_

It could easily be a fake, but something expands inside my chest and I know it's real. She's not hurt. That's all I have time to register before I am aware that I am shouting for my partner. Sherlock has appeared from nowehere, fully dressed. He reaches down and clasps his long fingers around the phone. His other hand is on my shoulder and I can feel the weight of the mattress shift as he sits down beside me. His hand has tightened on my shoulder, but it is keeping me anchored and aware of the situation. I am a bit angry with myself for being a ridiculous, trembling mess. At least we know she's okay. I take a deep breath and manage to steady myself. Sherlock has solved high-profile crimes with even less to go on than this. I steady myself. We can do this.

I get out of the bed and cross to the bathroom. I run through my routine but resolutely skip the shower. I dress quickly and note that Sherlock hasn't moved. He is studying the phone intently, brows furrowed and lips pursed in concentration. I leave him to it and head downstairs. In the kitchen, I take out a plate of cold bacon and slap a couple pieces of it between some bread, lastly adding a slice of cheese. I know it won't be long now, so I chug down a luke-warm cup of coffee and I wait.

Within minutes, Sherlock has entered the kitchen and dropped into one of the chairs. In one hand he's got the phone and in the other a biro and paper. He lays the phone flat on the table and carefully copies Sophie's text message in his long, loopy handwriting. While he's writing, I shove a piece of cold bacon in his mouth. For a second, his hand stops moving and he turns his eyes toward me in a silent "thank you" that I honestly don't need to hear. We have been at this long enough that I know if I don't get some sort of sustence into him he is just going to drop. Not this time now.

I make up two more bacon sandwiches and lightly wrap them in aluminum foil. I've already thrown my leather jacket on, so the sandwiches go right into the pocket. I am ready to move on a second's notice. I watch him write and then he lets out a snort as if its the most ridiculous thing he's ever seen. I just watch him as he gracefully gets up from the chair and heads toward the front door. I do not even need to ask. He's got the _hunter_ look about him that has begged me to follow him without question through the best years of my life.

 

_Sherlock_

I cannot believe it. Sophie did an excellent job with this message. She used the words _locked in_ to remind me of the security code to a phone that it took me a while to decipher a long time ago. She wrote out _U2_ instead of "you two" which tells me there are two people involved. The single "F" refers to the fact that both of them are female. "Keeper" in the singular shows me that only one of them is staying with her in the house where she is being kept. As soon as I work it out, I let out a sound of aggravation. I look up from the table and note that John is already waiting on me and we go outside. I explain all of these things to him as we walk down the long driveway toward the guard shack. We need a vehicle. We climb into one of Mycroft's cars and John takes the wheel.

"I am almost one hundred percent positive I know where she is, John." He glance my way quickly but keeps his eyes on the road. It will not take us long to get there, so we need to consider a plan of attack.

"I do not think Sophie knows exactly where she is, but she may have a pretty good idea. Apparently she either overheard or saw something that makes her think she is being held at _122 Livenwell Street_."

"Our daughter left you all that in a text message?" His eyes slide my direction again.

"Apparently she took your words as gospel. It was a good idea giving her your notebook." I nod toward my partner.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed the POV up here. I'm afraid that switching back-and-forth would be tedious here, so I wrote it this way.

**Chapter 11-Obessions and Endings**

It only takes a millisecond and Sherlock has the front door lock picked. The door swings open slowly and then stops about halfway, the outside light behind them only slightly illuminating the room. John notes that the carpet is a soft grey color and it seems very plush as he walks in behind his partner.

Without warning, there is a loud crash and Sherlock crumples to the floor. John whirls around and notices several things at the same time. One, he can hear a muffled yell just behind him. Two, there is a slight bead of blood dripping from Sherlock's temple down his cheek. Three, oh and is this the important one (he will consider later) that he is yet again staring at someone who should be dead; someone who should have been dead over twenty years ago. He considers for a moment that he's getting too old for this shit, and shuffles about to kneel down beside his partner. He quickly inspects Sherlock's head with his fingers and palm. There are no broken bones, just a slight swelling where a bruise will no doubt come up later. No way to tell if there is a concussion until he stirs. John leaves a hand lying on Sherlock's shoulder and turns toward the woman he believed to be dead until a minute and a half ago.

Irene Adler gazes down at John through hooded lids. She is breathing heavy like a wild animal caught in a cage. She has aged, as have they all, but the years have not been as kind to her. She is still quite well-built, though has started padding out in some places more than others. Her hair, still raven black, is now about half silver and worn on her head in a tightly wrapped bun, though some of the hairs have slipped out messily. She is wearing a black turtleneck and plain jeans.

Her eyes pierce through him. If he had to describe her on his blog (and he probably will do much later after the dust has cleared) she looks quite _deranged_. She stands over John, breathing heavily and still holding what appears to be a police baton in her upraised hand. She lowers the hand holding the baton and hisses through clinched teeth.

“ _How dare you?_ ” Her voice is high, insistent and very angry. Her eyes have gone cold. John turns so that his body is shielding Sherlock’s. The detective is starting to moan and John can only hope that when he comes around he will be lucid enough to help out.

Irene raises the baton again and makes as if to strike out at John. John is up just as quickly and has her on the floor, both arms pinned behind her back with one hand. His other hand holds the nape of her neck. Irene is screeching against the carpet with such a sound that John can only make out a few words, but they sound amazingly like “mine” and “Sherlock.” What the hell?

Irene tries hard to buck him off. He retaliates my sitting down, hard, on the middle of her back. She gives a grunt and then goes still. Time has not erased John’s memories of this woman who is as a beautiful and dangerous as a black mamba.

Sherlock has pushed himself up into a sitting position. From the sounds he’s making, John is pretty sure that Sherlock’s world is spinning. From his seat on Irene, he speaks calmly to his partner.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock himself goes still, closes his eyes against the dizziness and gets himself together. John takes just a second to look at the other man and can see that the blood along his temple has dried and no more seems to be forthcoming. He makes a small sound of relief. Irene takes advantage of the situation and deftly flips over. John makes a startled cry as the woman slashes at his face with her long red fingernails. He grabs at both of her hands and once again she stills.

“Sherlock, when you feel like you can stand, I need a better way to hold her.” John says quietly to the room at large. Irene hisses again and John tightens his hold on her hands. Though he’s flat on his back on the ground with Irene looming over him, he has control of both of her hands. Anger is pouring off of her in waves. John slowly pushes Irene’s hands down toward the ground and then stands as she kneels. He’s not about to let go again.

Sherlock has gained momentum again, shaking his head slowly as the world goes back to normal. He watches John’s struggle with a woman that he has quickly deduced is none other than Irene Adler. Though he will admit to being completely perplexed as to _why_ she is here. He runs a hand through his hair and stands up. Out of the corner of his eye, he has noticed movement towards the back of the house. A young woman is standing with her back to a bedroom door. Her hair is short and her eyes are wide with fear. Almost under her breath, she mumbles.

“Sophie…Sophie…I think they are…here.” She pushes against the door and another face, a beloved face, peers around the door. Sherlock opens his arms wide as his daughter steps out and almost runs to him. She buries her face in his neck and sobs. The other girl has not moved but Sherlock already knows who she is.

As he wraps his arms around Sophie, he speaks quietly to the other girl. “You are Irene’s daughter, yes?”

The other girl shakes her head and whispers “Heather.” She stares at him, afraid where her mother was simply angry.

Sherlock nods. Sophie has stopped sobbing, but is still holding her father tightly. She turns in his arms. “Papa, she has been taking care of me. She got the other woman to let me into a bedroom instead of…of where they had me before.” Sherlock hears the word left unsaid. He can see that Heather has had very little part of this and is probably the reason Sophie was able to send the text message in the first place. He nods at the other girl and turns back towards the sitting room. Sophie steps away from her dad and Heather follows them.

John is still standing in the middle of the room, both of Irene’s hands caught in his own. She is kneeling and her head is hanging toward the ground. In the scuffle, her hair has completely come undone and is wild down her back. Heather quietly steps up behind her mother and lays her hands on Irene’s shoulders. Irene slumps back against the girl and John finally lets go of her hands. Sophie almost runs to her Daddy and wraps him into a tight hug.

When they finally step away from each other, John’s face is wet but he is smiling at his daughter. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her to his side. She leans her head on his shoulder and they all just stand still for a moment. Heather puts her hands under her mother’s arms and helps her to the sofa. John makes no move to help them and Sherlock just stands his guard. After a time, he walks through the house to ascertain that there is no one else home.

He then walks to the front door and throws the dead bolt. He reaches over to a floor lamp and switches it on. Sophie steps out of John’s embrace and nods towards the kitchen.

“Tea?” She asks. Heather and John murmur their agreement. Neither Irene nor Sherlock speak.

John watches his daughter walk to the kitchen and then turns towards Sherlock, who is staring holes into Irene’s bowed head.

“You knew she was alive?” John’s question is quiet, calm, but seems all the louder in the room for it.

“I saved her life, John. They were going to execute her.” Sherlock speaks quietly but firmly.

John has no argument for that. The waters of so many years have smoothed out the edges of some hurts. He isn’t surprised, exactly, but the idea does not get to him like it would have _before_. John knew Sherlock cared more than he ever let on at the time and he will not fault him for it. Not when it has meant so much to so many other people.

Both men turn their faces toward the woman who lies crumpled on the sofa. Heather sits behind her, rubbing her shoulders.

“Who are you?” John asks the young woman.

“Heather, Irene’s daughter.” Sherlock speaks for her. John nods and then does a quick calculation in his head. He doesn’t recognize any of her features. Somewhere in the back of his mind he breathes in relief, no way does she belong to Sherlock or a certain psychopath they used to know.

Irene has finally looked up at both men. Her eyes seem clearer than they were just moments ago. She makes a vague gesture towards the other chairs in the room. John sits, one leg over the other, hands resting on his thighs. Sherlock knows at a glance that his partner can move from that very position very quickly if need be. Sherlock does not sit down, even after Sophie reenters the room carrying a tea tray laden with cups and a kettle.

She carefully sets the tray down on the round table in front of the sofa. No one breathes for a moment, they all seem frozen in time. Sophie pours from the kettle and hands around the cups. Its an odd sort of ritual, full of everyday comfort. Neither John nor Sherlock accept a cup. They are both focused on Irene instead, watching her as if she were a cobra behind glass at the Zoo. What will she do next?

When Irene finally speaks, her voice is small and broken. Her throat is hoarse from screeching. “Sherlock I would have done _anything_ for you.” She gazes at him, following his movements with her eyes. He assigns to meaning to her words. She continues: “I would have given up my life for you, my world. But you would always look at me and see…. _him._ ”

Yet another dead man brought back to life, but only for a moment. The eyes of Jim Moriarty are gone from this world. A tarantula brain crushed to a death by its own insanity.

“ _Why_ did you save me, Sherlock? I meant nothing to you, I had betrayed you. Yet you let me live.” Irene’s eyes were pleading now. “And now, now when I could have you…all of you…you love _him_?” She spat, turning in John’s direction and making like she was going to stand up and tossing her little tea cup to the floor where it bounced off the carpet and rolled under the sofa. In a flash, John was standing in front of her, hands at his sides, ready to take her down again if need be.

Heather pushed away from her mother and moved across the room. She had dealt with her mother’s ever changing moods since she was a tiny child and she was finally starting to see where it had all begun.

It was unbelievable to her how long her mother had carried this poison. She had never even known her father, and yet her was a man that had never even touched her mother apparently and _that_ was who she was pining over?

Heather stepped backwards until her feet hit another chair. She dropped into it, stunned by her sudden revelation.

“I just want it back.” Irene said in a small voice.

“You cannot have it.” Sherlock replied, almost in a growl.

“What do you mean I can’t have it? It’s mine, I want it _back_!” The last word filled with venom, Irene rushed John, her arms flying out as if to push him away.

“Irene,” Sherlock said to the room in his best _you-are-an-idiot_ voice. “I no longer have it. It is currently residing in an evidence locker in the basement of New Scotland Yard as I understand the situation.”

“ _What?_ ” Irene’s screeching was enough to drive any man insane, thought John as he stubbornly kept his body between the two adversaries.

She stepped backwards and dropped back to the sofa. Sherlock could see some of the tension leave John’s shoulders but he stood his ground. Irene pushed herself back against the arm of the sofa and glared at Sherlock, who was finally standing still.

“Irene, tell me. What else was on that mobile phone besides blackmail photos?” He stared down at her, his eyes cold.

“No.” The woman on the couch whispered, crossing her arms over her chest and hanging her head. Sherlock stepped in closer to her and grabbed one of her wrists, pulling her arm away from her chest. With another screech, she slashed at his chest with her nails. Her grabbed at her flailing hands while John tried to pull her off of his partner from the other side.

Sherlock could not take much more. He drew back and slapped her full across the face before he even knew what he had done. Irene froze and one hand moved to her face. She dropped back down to the couch, boneless and burst into tears.

“I love you. You bastard, I loved you. I would have given up everything for you. I was wrong about the plane and the….” She sobbed into her hands. “I…I, there’s something else, Sherlock. I waited for you. When you jumped…when you jumped, part of me did finally die. Then you were back and I had _nothing._ Do you understand me?” Her voice rose again in pitch. Heather and Sophie just stared at her. Sherlock stood over her, watching. John felt strange waves of shock roll over him. It had been so long, but somehow he knew what Irene was describing. He remembered those feelings well.

Then Sophie had come along and changed everything. Not just his life but Sherlock’s life; and Sherlock’s heart….the one that was supposed to have only been a fable.

“I gave it all up, Sherlock. All of it.” Irene addressed her hands. She had broken three nails on Sherlock’s chest but seemed not to see them as she wrung her hands in her lap. “BUT YOU!” She stared in John’s direction. He stared back. “You took him away.from.me. You did this!” She was angry, but seemed to no longer have the energy to move from her seat.

John calmly gazed at Irene, once a successful dominatrix and worldwide troublemaker. Somewhere in the region of his chest, he actually felt sorry for her. “Irene, Sherlock never loved you. You knew this.” He said to her as quietly as he could muster.

“Yes he did, and with you out of the way, he _will love me_!” With absolutely no warning, Irene reached down under the sofa and withdrew a tiny pistol. Sherlock and John both jumped back at the same time. Irene pointed the pistol in John’s direction but Sherlock stepped in front of his partner before John could protest.

“Ah, you aren’t going to fix my puzzle for me this time, Sherlock?” Irene made a clicking sound with her tongue on the end of Sherlock’s name. “I brought your dead whore’s daughter here and still you won’t solve my puzzle? Fine then, come with me. That band on your finger means nothing to me, Sherlock. Nothing.”

Sophie tensed up on Irene’s words calling her dead mother a whore. Everything she new about Irene she had read on Daddy’s blog or in his notebook. None of this was making any sense. Her head quickly moved from side to side as she watched the interchange taking place. Heather seemingly was having the same problem. Both girls were horrified when the gun appeared, Sophie even more so. Unlike Heather, she had no idea what Irene was capable of.

“Irene, you have never killed anyone.”

“John, you ass. How would you even know?” She glared at him, still keeping the little pistol raised in the air between them. “Maybe I should just shoot your big _lover_ then, shall I? If I can’t have him after all this time, then why should you?”  She moved her thumb to pull the trigger and her eyes glazed over. Sherlock turned his face toward John and in that second, Irene saw the truth.

It all happened in slow motion. Irene’s entire expression changed to one of acceptance and her hand turned the pistol away from John and towards herself. She closed her eyes and tears rolled down her face. Heather had jumped up from her chair and was reaching out to her mother as if to grab the gun. Sophie just sat, stunned, in the chair. Sherlock and John, always the team, had moved together towards Irene to do something, but even they could not stop a bullet once it was fired.

Irene never opened her eyes again as she placed the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger. In an instant, it was all over. Blood spray on the back of the sofa, a body slumped against the cushions and a young woman holding her dead mother in her arms, sobbing.

Sophie moved to her Daddy and Papa. Both men wrapped their arms around their daughter as Sherlock used the other hand to pull out his phone to call the police. Sophie stared at the dead woman for a few minutes longer and then turned her face into her Daddy’s chest, feeling the soft jumper he wore beneath her cheek.


	12. Sophie's Journal and Blog

**Chapter 12: Sophie’s Journal**

I am so fortunate to have the parents that I have. After Irene’s descent into what I am going to un-creatively call   _insanity_ , and her death, I’ve been a little beside myself. I keep thinking about Michael and how I could have changed things. I think I am going to be hurting over that for a long time. I can’t say it’s okay now, but I think things will get better.

Amber’s neck has healed nicely and though we missed the last two exhibitions, we will be entering the next one. We have to carry on.

Papa was hurt by Irene’s death (for real this time.) I know he would never see her as a sexual object as so many have, but he still felt something for her. Apparently when they all knew each other before, she was quite the clever troublemaker.

Heather and I have become good friends and she occasionally comes out to our house to visit. She had never been horseback riding before, so I taught her how to ride. Now she has her own horse here. She found herself a small flat in town and she has been working at the public library. Funny that, that’s not even the sort of place I pictured her to work in once we really started to become friends. I figured she was a bartender in some posh place that catered to steampunking vampires. (I am kidding.)(Mostly.) Anyway, she is a strong person and there is a lot more to her than meets the eye. I think she’s got a boyfriend, some guy from one of the universities, but I have yet to meet him.

Darren has filled me in on everything that happened while I was gone and I gave him my side of the story. He hugged me that day and then he kissed me. I think we’ve got something here, but I have no wish to dwell on it yet. (Trust me, that day is coming.) He says the reason he’s always been so gruff around me is that he was afraid to talk to me, considering who my dads and uncles are. I just laughed at him. I think he’s coming around.

Grammy Hudson says sometimes it takes men forever to decide how they feel when it comes to matters of the heart. She always looks at Papa and/or Daddy when she says this and they always give her the funniest looks right back. I just shrug and smile. One of these days I am going to make them sit down and tell me the whole story and I am going to write it all down. Oh sure, if you read Daddy’s blog you will see tiny bits of it, but nothing like I believe the story to be.

I have never been able to discern what it was that Irene wanted from my Papa so badly. Is it possible that love can tip over into dangerous obsession?

 

**Sophie’s blog, later**

_There have been hundreds of stories of lovers, some ill-fated and star-crossed, others that make it to the happily-ever-after state. Some that burn hot and bright in the beginning and then burn out like dud fireworks, leaving no trace of itself behind.  Others burn like a dying star and then slowly trickle down into a mutual respect for one another, even after admitting differences that can no longer be repaired by time or science or the laws of the land._

_Some romances never get a chance to be, because they are one-sided. A love so one-sided that it borders on obsession is a dangerous thing, hurting so many other people in its wake like a giant tsunami. It is a primeval force that seeks to crush everything in its path, even unawares. I would never have believed something like that possible, had I not seen it with my own two eyes. So many people hurt because one person simply could not move on. Is this the part when a border is crossed and love turns into hate and a desire for revenge?_

_But, how can one have revenge on someone who was unknowing in the first place? When the dark knight saved the woman’s life, he did it for no other reason than compassion. This fact alone probably surprised the dark knight himself, even more than it did the woman. She crossed borders for him, thinking he would somehow see her and come back to her. His heart, however, was already given to another._

_-Sophie_

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated!


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